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Shit!
I lean with my hands on my knees, panting, but in a moment, I gather my remaining strength and go up the steps to the crowded restaurant deck that gives a much better view of the marina.
A big party is going on. Pushing past people, I run up to the railing of the terrace that overlooks the bay.
Reznik’s boat is veering out of the bay, and, fuck, if I don’t feel like Lu is slipping through my fingers.
That’s it! We lost them!
My heart pounding, I look around wildly.
Barons of Brighton, the sign on the building says. It’s a boat club with a restaurant, and it’s a Saturday, still daylight, but the party at the club is in full swing.
A crowd of dressed-up women and men smoke outside. Others lounge around the patio tables. Music is trickling from inside the restaurant through the open terrace doors.
There are plenty of people who look rough and weathered—boaters and yachters, I assume. I don’t stick out with my sweaty bloodied shirt.
I feel up my wound—it’s a through one, thank God.
A group of guys stands by the railing not far from me, chatting in Russian, I assume, smoking and sizing me up.
I shift and wince at the pain in my shoulder, dizzy for a moment, leaning over the railing with my eyes closed.
“??????, ???, ?? ?????1”
A tall guy steps toward me. The other two stare me down. Those unintentionally-angry stares are definitely Slavic. So are jeans, dress shirts, several-day stubble, and fuck-all attitude.
“I don’t speak Russian,” I grit through my teeth.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Fine, thanks. Hey, can I use your phone?” I ask, and before he gets suspicious, I add, “Some asshole stole my phone and I need to get help.”
Pity-fuck, see? People always go for a charity case over an emergency one.
It works.
I dial Roey.
“Reznik is on a boat,” I blurt when he picks up after one ring. “I don’t know where he’s heading, but he just took off from the Barons of Brighton marina.”
“I see you on the map. Guys I sent to follow you got stuck in traffic.” Of course. Fucking Brooklyn. “What kind of boat?”
“I didn’t catch what boat it was.”
“Donzi 22 called Flyer, purple and white,” the guy next to me says as his eyes slowly slide up and down my body and fix on the dark bloodied stain on my shoulder.
“You hear that?” I ask Roey.
“Yes. Miller is starting the drone. We’re on it. Brexton and Kolchak’s guys got Reznik’s men. I’m sending the teams to the marina.”
More people pour out of the restaurant, laughing. The music gets louder.
I pass the phone back to the guy and lean over the railing of the deck, scanning the rows of boats and yachts, moored and decked. Halyard ropes beat against the tall sailboat masts out in the water, producing a ringing noise.
Think, think, think, Jace.
This is a boat club, right? People gotta have boats I can hire, even on a Saturday.
